My mailbox periodically sees stuff from the AARP, but I didn’t feel like an old lady until last Monday when I threw my back out. I can only assume that was the first of many times.
Instead of putting my boots on like a normal person, my limbs had decided to twist around each other into what I can only describe as “Spastic Eagle Pose.”
As I stood back up, I realized I could not stand back up, and started shouting like Ezal in “Friday.” “OOOOH I’m hurt! My neck! My back! Myneckandmyback!”
Hunched over at a 90-degree angle, I shuffled to the car and half-threw/half-toppled myself and my handbag inside and drove to work. (That’s right: handbag. It stopped being a purse when I started walking like my great-grandmother.)
By the time I got there, it felt as if I’d been stabbed repeatedly with a fork in the sweet spot directly above my arse.
And that’s when everyone starting throwing drugs at me.
And by “everyone” I mean two people.
And by “drugs” I mean ibuprofen and some white unnamed painkiller that I was instructed to take only at home, in bed, surrounded by “non-strangling” items.
“Don’t take ’em at the same time, Fritz. Just one,” said the drug sharer.
“Maybe a half,” said my co-worker.
“Maybe you should just give one side a little lick and call it good,” said Inner Voice, who knows how I get after a whisper of valium.
“Maybe you should go see a chiropractor?” said a candypants nearby.
“SHUDDUP, STRAIGHT-EDGE!” we all shouted.
An hour later, the unnamed painkillers were missing, and I’d become convinced I’d taken them instead of the ibuprofen. Why would I think that?
Because two years ago, I woke up with what I can only describe as “a hangover,” Frankensteined to the bathroom to grab ibuprofen, and instead grabbed the laxatives.
This was an easy mistake to make, since the bottles were Gubmint Issue-style: white, with tiny black writing on them and a picture of a little red pill on the side. The mistake was revealed a few hours later, when my headache remained but my butt had begun “crying.”
So it was easy to believe I’d taken the painkillers when I’d meant to take the ibuprofen. I rushed home as quick as my little crooked body would take me, crawled up the stairs, moved all the headphone wires and loose bits of rope out of the bed and prepared to become a drooling idiot.
It’s time to keep a walker in the hall closet, get that rad stair-chair thing Montgomery Burns’ has in his house, and keep my pills in a pillbox. It also felt like time to see a chiropractor.
As Sir Smoke-a-Lot says in “Half Baked,” “Doctah says I need a back-i-otomy!”
Jeanine Fritz writes for the Colorado Daily every Monday.